


strike me down

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curse Breaking, M/M, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: A curse. Of course it was a curse.“A spell,” Geralt corrected, like he could read his mind. “I don’t—fully understand it,” he admitted with a frown, “but it has something to do with your emotions, and..." The bastard had the nerve to look vaguely amused. "The weather.”Jaskier could’ve screamed; oh, why wouldn’t life ever be easy? He knew why, of course, though he could never truly regret traveling with Geralt, even with the costs. “The weather?” he repeated blandly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 560





	strike me down

**Author's Note:**

> written for one of my supporters, hope u enjoy!! <33
> 
> twitter: queermight & korrwrites  
> tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier sighed dramatically. “You’re really not accompanying your oldest, dearest friend, even after coming all this way?”

When he had mentioned the bardic competition, he hadn’t expected Geralt to offer to go with him, especially so short notice, but he supposed he hadn’t realized he meant literally _going_ there with him, not accompanying him to the actual competition.

Geralt raised an eyebrow from where he sat on the bed with his swords and sharpening stone.

“I have no interest in listening to talentless bards while drinking even worse ale,” he said blandly. Then, because he was a bastard and loved to play with Jaskier’s heart, he smiled a little. “I know you’ll win anyway, which takes most of the enjoyment out of it.”

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek, silent for a moment as he forced his rapidly-beating heart to slow down. Sometimes he wondered if Geralt knew what he was doing to him, when he said stuff like that or looked at him a certain way. Probably not, if he had to guess, but seriously Jaskier only had so much self-control and one day he _would_ finally snap, confessing his feelings to the other man, no matter the cost.

“Well,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “I will play in your honor, darling,” he said with a deep bow, and Geralt’s amused snort was worth it.

*

Geralt was right: the competition was horridly boring. Jaskier knew he would win as soon as he heard the other contestants play. Some of them were decent, but young and inexperienced, not quite a match for a man of his age and experience.

At least it was easy coin, he supposed, as he made his way back to the inn, his bag a little heavier with the prize. And he knew Valdo Marx would be upset once he heard of his win.

Sighing, he lifted his gaze just in time to stop before he collided with a woman blocking the way. “Oh,” he breathed, squinting at her in the dark. “Excuse me.”

In the dark, with her head tilted down, all he could really see was the soft line of her shoulders and her dark curls. Reminded him briefly of Yennefer until she looked up, finally, surprising him with a friendly smile and even friendlier green eyes.

“No, excuse me,” she corrected with a quick bow. “I wanted a moment with you.”

Jaskier blinked, surprised and yet not. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been approached by women before, and even some men, after competitions. He smiled back brightly. “I always allot time for my fans,” he said with a shameless wink.

“Of course you do,” she said with a giggle, extending a hand. Jaskier took it, shaking lightly. Her hand was soft, her skin dark against his own. “I quite enjoyed that last song,” she continued as she pulled her hand back and reached for her bag. He watched as she produced a folded up piece of parchment. “Do you mind if we sit?”

Jaskier shook his head, and they quickly found a spot for them to sit as she pulled out a long box and a jar of ink. Predictably, the box housed a quill.

“I would be honored to have your autograph,” she said, batting her eyelashes. Jaskier felt a swell of pride in his chest. He might not be eighteen anymore, but he still had adoring fans.

Dipping the quill, he wrote his name in rounding letters across the parchment. “There you go,” he said cheerily as she took the parchment. He watched as her lips curled in a soft, almost sly smile. Yes, well, he had definitely seen plenty of _those_ smiles over the years.

“Your last song,” she said, looking up as she tucked the paper in her bag alongside the other items. “It was very—emotional.”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the side, his heart beating a little faster. “I suppose so.”

It had been one of his newer pieces, and he was the only one who knew the true inspiration behind the piece: Geralt. He had been properly vague in all the right places, but in the end it was still a confession of his love for the other man.

Pointless, since he would never know, but a way to get the weight of his emotions off his chest.

“Do they know?” she asked. When he turned her gaze back to her, she was watching him closely. At his silence, she smiled slightly. “The person you wrote the sing about. Do they know of your feelings?”

Jaskier smiled tightly. “Not quite,” he replied. “It is better that way, I assure you.”

He would prefer to only ever be Geralt’s friend—his closest, _oldest_ friend—than risk pushing him away because he selfishly couldn’t keep his emotions to himself. She nodded, looking thoughtful. “I think you should be more honest about how you feel,” she said, and he laughed lightly.

“Trust me, I do not,” he said. “I am quite blunt as am.”

She stood up, and he stood with her. “But not in the ways that count,” she replied, a knowing look in her emerald eyes. Even with the differences, she reminded him of Yennefer. He wasn’t so sure if that was a good thing or not. “It was nice meeting you, Jaskier,” she said before turning around; he watched as she left.

He didn’t even think to ask for her name.

*

Jaskier had stopped visiting brothels as much. Or, really, at all. Sometimes he wondered if it would be good for him to accompany Geralt on one of his visits, like the days long before he had realized for the first time that his feelings for the other man went deeper than friendship. It would be cathartic, maybe, but he knew it would only help briefly, if at all.

No point in wasting the funds, frankly. He hadn’t been in the mood for sex in a long time. He almost wished he could blame it on age but he wasn’t _that_ old, and he knew the actual source of his troubles was the man standing just a few feet away.

“I’ll be back.”

Jaskier smiled at him from the bed. “Have fun,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. He ignored the deep ache of his heart.

Geralt was more than allowed to have sex with any man ( _stop that,_ his brain whispered, _stop being hopeful_ ) or woman of his choosing. It wasn’t like he owed celibacy to Jaskier. It wasn’t like he even knew of Jaskier’s feelings, and that had taken some work.

When he was eighteen, he had been naively honest. Now, he knew better. He knew what to say and what not to say, how to act, how to force a smile that even Geralt—who could be surprisingly observant—would not question.

“You could still come with me,” he said, and Jaskier sighed heavily.

“I could,” he agreed, “but I am quite tired, and feeling unexpectedly inspired.”

He tapped his lute, for good measure. To be fair, he wasn’t entirely lying. He did feel inspired. It had been a while since he wrote a sadder ballad, something for the masses to relate to. Geralt paused for a moment, silent, before finally nodding.

Without a word, he left. Jaskier took a deep breath and reached for his bag.

He forgot what he was looking for when he discovered a folded piece of parchment sticking out from between the pages of his journal. Frowning, and trying to remember if he had placed it there, he pulled it out. He immediately recognized his own handwriting; his name written across the front.

“What the…”

He slid his thumb between the flap and opened it. There was writing, and not his own. It wasn’t in a language he understood. His eyes flickered to the bottom of the page; that, he could read, just two lines in a neat handwriting.

_Don’t be mistaken, dear bard, I am only trying to help._

_He deserves to know the truth, and you deserve to be freed from your burden._

Jaskier remembered suddenly: from a few days ago, the woman after the competition. He had signed his name for her but he had _seen_ with his own two eyes as she slipped the paper in her own bag. His heart thumped, loud and fast, as he realized: she hadn’t just looked like Yennefer, no, there has been more to it than that. He had _felt_ it.

A power he hadn’t even realized was there, simmering below the surface.

Jaskier jumped up. “Geralt,” he breathed, heart pounding. Trying to help, his arse. He had never known a mage, not even Yennefer, not to be selfish. Suddenly the door slammed open. Jaskier startled, looking up.

It was only Geralt, soaked to the bone. He grumbled. “Rain,” he said. “Again.”

Jaskier swallowed thickly. “Geralt,” he said. “I have something I think you need to see.”

*

A curse. Of course it was a curse.

“A spell,” Geralt corrected, like he could read his mind. “I don’t—fully understand it,” he admitted with a frown, “but it has something to do with your emotions, and..." The bastard had the nerve to look vaguely amused. "The weather.”

Jaskier could’ve screamed; oh, why wouldn’t life ever be _easy?_ He knew why, of course, though he could never truly regret traveling with Geralt, even with the costs. “The weather?” he repeated blandly. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Tell me again what she said,” he lifted his gaze. “Word for word.”

Jaskier tensed, eyes flickering to the side. He had told him, once, though he had pointedly kept some details to himself. Geralt could be dense, especially concerning these kinds of things, but he didn’t want to risk it.

Taking a deep breath, he retold the story. Geralt listened closely, and Jaskier pretended not to enjoy having his undivided attention, even under the circumstances.

“She seems to think she is doing you a favor, somehow,” he said once he was finished.

Jaskier smiled tightly. “Yes, well, mages do have a tendency to think they know what is better for you than you do, do they not?” he asked sharply, and Geralt frowned, looking nearly hurt. Jaskier cursed silently. He was only trying to help. “Well, the solution is obvious, don’t you think? We need to find her, and ask her to—to _reverse_ it or whatever.”

Geralt stared at him blankly. “You didn’t even ask for her name, Jaskier. How are we supposed to do that?”

“I—” Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut. “Fuck,” he said. Then with more feeling: “ _fuck_.”

He didn’t even jump at the clap of thunder from outside, rattling the windows. Once the rain had settled back to a soft patter, Jaskier noticed Geralt was watching him again.

“What?” he asked with a frown.

Geralt glanced down at the paper and up again. “You’ve been doing it,” he breathed, looking nearly impressed. “The rain. For days now.”

Jaskier blinked owlishly. “You have got to be pulling my leg, dear Geralt. I—I mean, yes, okay,” he gestured, hard, at the paper, “but these are just _words_. And wouldn’t that take a lot of—of power? Fighting against the laws of—of nature.” He gestured again. Geralt noticed he did that a lot when he was upset.

He reached out and touched the back of his hand, just a light graze. Jaskier froze.

“You’ve been upset since the competition,” he said instead, because now—with this as proof—it was fairly evident rain wasn’t a sign of a _good_ mood.

Jaskier pulled his hand back, still frowning. Geralt squinted, trying to understand.

“But you won.”

Jaskier let out a sudden laugh and another clap of thunder—louder than the last—shook the whole room, maybe the whole inn. “I did,” he agreed brightly. “Which is probably exactly why the universe decided to fucking pull _this_ ,” he gestured around wildly, “as if I wasn’t already struggling with—”

He stopped, teeth clanking as he snapped his mouth shut again. Geralt waited to see if he’d continue. He didn’t. He pointed at the words at the bottom.

“What is she talking about? Truth? Is she talking about me?”

He didn’t miss the the way Jaskier tensed, jaw clenching. “Is it, frankly, any of your business?” he replied instantly, sharp and dangerous. In a lot of ways, the bard could be like Yennefer. Geralt knew he didn’t mean any of it, the words or the anger. Didn’t take offense to any of it.

He knew the bard better than he ever thought he would, had grown to view him as a constant in his life. Even if he could get rid of him, now, he would never want to.

He needed him, was the crux of it. He had never wanted to _need_ anyone, and yet Jaskier had found a way to his heart, the stubborn bastard.

Geralt had been mulling over those feelings for a while, debating what to do, if anything. Or what they even _meant_ , to feel so attached to a person. It wasn’t like with Yennefer, exactly. When he had seen her, he had immediately been attracted to her. With Jaskier, it had taken years. What he felt for Yennefer had been sharp and overwhelming, though quick to die out like a fire. What he felt for Jaskier was calm and soothing. Like the salve to an ache he hadn’t realized he’d had for so long.

But at least now he didn’t have time to think about all that; he had a more important thing to focus on.

“We can try to find her, retrace our steps,” he offered, voice as gentle as he could manage. 

Jaskier eyed him skeptically, like he was expecting more questions. When Geralt didn’t say anything, he nodded curtly. “Okay, yes,” he agreed. “That sounds like the start of a proper plan.”

*

Jaskier held grudges, it was a known fact. Frankly, even Valdo Marx wasn’t _that_ bad, all things considered, but as if he would ever admit that. This unnamed mage was a _different_ story: he had a reason, a real and deep reason, to _despise_ her, his anger like a fire in the pit of his stomach. And that started and ended with the fact they were stuck at the inn.

They had planned to leave in the morning, as soon as the rain stopped and it was safe. He supposed they should’ve known better; in the morning, Geralt had approached the window and sighed deeply.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and Jaskier bristled.

“This is me,” he said. “You said that, right?” He climbed out of bed, glaring at the rain-splattered window. “I’m doing this.”

Geralt side-eyed him. “I think so, yes. Your emotions are connected to the weather. You’re upset, and—” He gestured. “—evidently this is the result.”

Jaskier let out a humorless laugh. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think? I actually quite like rain.”

Well, _normally_ he liked rain. When he wasn’t in a rush to get out of town and find the meddling little mage who thought she had known what he needed when she _didn’t_. His eyes flickered to Geralt, who had turned back to the window. She was an idiot if she thought any good would come out of him confessing; to be fair, had she known it was _him_ —the White Wolf—he was talking about in his song? Perhaps not. She probably thought it was simply some noblewoman he couldn’t have, or even just a man, knowing not all of Continent was approving of that.

A forbidden love could be forbidden for many reasons, but this one— _this_ was a forbidden love by choice.

“Come on,” Geralt said suddenly, and Jaskier startled like a deer when Geralt grabbed his hand, heart skipping a beat. He took a moment to find his voice again:

“Where are we going?” he asked as Geralt led them out of the inn. As soon as they were out in the rain, Jaskier shivered; it wasn’t just rain, it was unnaturally cold given the time of year. He wondered briefly if it would snow.

Geralt turned toward him. “Close your eyes.” Jaskier sighed, closing his eyes. “Focus your emotions.”

He nearly laughed. Or sobbed. Really, he wasn’t sure. He thought he had gotten better at controlling his emotions, ignoring them when they were inconvenient, which—was often, around Geralt. Waking up next to him in the mornings, bathing with him in a cool stream at the peak of summer, all those things had made him feel like his heart was going to beat out of his chest.

But now, standing here in the rain, he realized he would always be a victim to his emotions. Made for good music. Not so good a life, he was learning.

His eyes snapped open just in time to watch as a strike of lightning hit the ground near Geralt’s feet, dangerously close. His heart thumped loudly. He grabbed Geralt’s arm without a missing a beat.

“You could’ve—” _been turned to ash._

Geralt shushed him instantly. “Try harder.”

Hours. They stayed out in the pouring rain for hours. Jaskier never managed to stop the rain. When he opened his eyes the next morning, he was shocked by the clear skies. Geralt turned toward him.

“We should pack,” he said, and Jaskier could only nod as he helped him pack up for the potentially _very_ long trip.

Once on the road, Geralt eyed him curiously.

“Must’ve dreamed of something pleasant,” he commented, and Jaskier ignored the ache of his heart.

He had, certainly. Even now, he could remember how Geralt’s body had felt underneath him. It had been warm and comforting. He wondered if reality would be much different. The sky darkened above them, clouds blocking the sun. At least there was no rain.

“I did,” he said softly. Geralt watched him for a moment longer before finally looking away.

*

Finding the mage, especially with only her appearance to go on, was near impossible. Geralt sighed as they dropped to the ground together; it was cloudy, and according to Geralt on the verge of raining. Jaskier had eyed him at that, and he had simply shrugged.

“I can smell it.”

Jaskier slapped on a too-bright smile. “Yes, well, _I_ can control it.” He paused. “Well, no, not _exactly_. But you know what I mean.”

They had been traveling for four days, had gone to the town but (predictably) she was nowhere to be seen, had traveled on from there. Now they were between the last and next town. It wasn’t quite night yet, but they had decided to stop for a bit to rest. Jaskier’s feet had finally begun to ache, and he hadn’t even needed to say it; Geralt had just known, somehow.

“If you could learn how to control it,” Geralt started with a thoughtful tilt of his mouth, staring at the sky, “we wouldn’t even need to—”

Jaskier put a hand up. “I am _not_ shouldering that responsibility, Geralt, but thank you for believing in me.”

Geralt smirked, “I never said _that_ ,” and Jaskier had to look away before his mind went to bad places, like wondering how Geralt looked in bed, if he smiled at his partner like that, with just a hint of fondness. He barely even realized the clouds had moved until he felt the warm heat of the sun on the back of his neck.

He didn’t miss the twitch of Geralt’s smell and the flicker of his eyes.

_“What?”_ he asked.

Geralt shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, which was easy enough to believe; he had discovered early on that Jaskier’s smells were inconsistent. As he was, he could pick a lot up on smell, like if it was likely to rain in a few hours, or if they were being approached long before the person—or thing—showed up. But with Jaskier, his smells had always thrown him for a loop.

Often he smelled of lust, basically since the day he had met him. That was unusual; lots of humans smelled of it somewhat consistently, but Jaskier _reeked_ of it constantly. Unless he was upset, and then it was Geralt’s least favorite smell, sour and bitter.

He supposed that made sense, given Jaskier’s reputation.

“It isn’t that bad,” Geralt said, and Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “We are making good time,” he said, though they had no way of really knowing that. The mage could be across the Continent by now for all they knew. “You’re making it rain. Not exactly a threat to the world.”

Jaskier lifted an eyebrow. “And the windstorm from yesterday?”

Geralt tried not to smile. Not the time. “I was annoying you,” he pointed out.

“Yes, and I should not be capable of that, annoyed or not,” he replied bitterly. “Geralt, I can’t control it. I could—I could—” Really, he knew what his biggest fear would be: hurting Geralt, but he knew he wasn’t easily hurt. “I could hurt you, or Roach, or me.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I tried, long ago, to get my emotions in check and I thought I had succeeded, but I am now realizing I was sorely mistaken.”

Geralt wanted to reach out for him. He didn’t, instead he said: “You could be doing a lot worse, Jaskier. Most humans would’ve blown the planet to smithereens by now.”

Jaskier smiled tightly. “It _hurts_ , Geralt,” he said finally. “Every time I feel too much of _anything_ , I can feel it: feels like my heart is going to _burst_."

“You didn’t tell me,” he replied, frowning.

Jaskier sighed. “It didn’t, at first,” he continued, “but now… and I’m afraid it will only continue like this.”

“I don’t think the mage accounted for that,” he said, and Jaskier eyed him skeptically. “I mean, the spell wasn’t supposed to cause any _pain_ , Jaskier. Not of the physical kind, at least.”

Jaskier nodded slowly. His heart skipped a beat as he absorbed the information, tried to reason it. “Do you think this is—is this spell going to _kill_ me, Geralt?”

The trees rustled above them; Geralt felt a cool gust of wind sweep over the back of his neck. Roach lifted her head. He had the same fear, frankly, but he knew he had to take control of the situation. For Jaskier. He finally reached for him, just his hand, gripping it tightly.

“You will not die,” he said. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

Jaskier blinked at him; the forest settled around them. A slight smile. “Your confidence is always inspiring,” he said softly, and Geralt gave a small smile back.

“Destiny is a load of crap,” he said. “We control our fates.” He squeezed his hand. “I won’t let you die, Jaskier.”

Geralt felt a drop of water on his face and quickly lifted his gaze; just as soon as the rain had started, it was over. Confused, he peered over at Jaskier. His eyes were a little wet, but he hardly looked _upset_.

Jaskier let out a sudden laugh. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, quickly wiping at his eyes. “Just—” He gestured at the sky, a mix of dark clouds on one side, bright clear skies on the other. “—overwhelmed right now.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, meaning it.

*

On the fourteenth day, _two weeks_ after the start of the spell, Jaskier was pretty sure he was going to lose his mind. And given the spell, well, that was probably not a good thing. So far they hadn’t found the mage, and he could tell Geralt didn’t think they would ever find her, now, by the clench of his jaw and tense line of his shoulders.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier said, finally accepting his fate. “We could find her. She could undo the spell, right?”

Geralt peered at him from across the fire. “We could try that,” he conceded, frowning, “but finding her may not be any easier.”

He hated that Geralt was right; Yennefer rarely wanted to be found. If she did, _she_ would find _you_. Jaskier groaned, burying his face in his hands. A gush of wind, the fire flickering wildly. Geralt watched it carefully.

“Is there a reason mages hate me, in particular?” he grumbled, muffled by his hands. Geralt smiled slightly.

“They are attracted to your kind,” he remarked, and Jaskier lifted his gaze, squinting. “Sarcastic, emotional, _painfully_ earnest.”

Jaskier flushed. “You speak as if I’m still the eighteen year old boy you met.” He sniffed once. “I’m not. I’ve grown. Realized that being trusting and honest is not always the smartest path.”

Geralt hummed, staring at him. Jaskier stared back, ignoring the heavy thump of his heart. “I quite liked that eighteen year old boy,” he said, and Jaskier let out a snort.

“You did not,” he said. “You despised me back then.”

Geralt tilted his head back and forth. “Fair. I did, back then. Looking back, I realize I took your companionship for granted. You were good for me, Jaskier, even when I didn’t let you think it.” Another one of those moments where Jaskier wished he would just stop talking, because he couldn’t take it, hearing such kind words out of Geralt’s mouth while knowing it was all he would ever get. Geralt loved him, now, he knew, but only as a friend.

Only ever as a friend.

His chest ached, tight and painful. The wind around them picked up, ruffling Geralt’s hair. Roach lifted her head.

“Jaskier,” he heard through the rushing in his ears. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut.

Back then, he didn’t even think he’d ever have Geralt as a friend. A real friend, who was unafraid of admitting he cared for him. That would have to be enough. Jaskier opened his eyes.

“Sorry, I—”

Jaskier couldn’t warn him quick enough; suddenly there was a flurry of movement behind Geralt. The world slowed to a stop around them. Around Jaskier, at least, as he watched Geralt lurch forward with a grunt of pain. Jaskier lifted his eyes; a man stood behind him, a dagger clutched in one hand, looking wild. 

“ _Die_ , ya monster,” was shouted, and Jaskier scrambled to his feet as Geralt dropped to his side, groaning loudly.

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to the assaulter. The murderer, maybe, because Geralt might _die_. He smiled, the bastard. “You should count this as a favor,” he spit from across the fire, and _Jaskier_ —

He had felt anger, before, or so he thought, but this was—he felt like his chest was on _fire_ , and like he couldn’t breathe. The trees rustled overhead, Jaskier struggled to find air, chest heaving. He had his own dagger, somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where he’d put it and truthfully he didn’t think he’d be a match for even a coward in his current state.

He might just die with Geralt, he decided, if the pain didn’t stop.

“What the fuc—”

Jaskier finally managed to take a breath, shaky, throat burning. The wind picked up out of nowhere, rushing around them like a tornado, but not quite. Jaskier staggered to the side. Roach snorted and neighed, tossing her head back and forth.

“What is happening?” was shouted, but through the harshness of the wind he could barely hear it.

Jaskier stumbled around the fire to drop by Geralt’s side. He touched his face with shaky fingertips.

“Are you doing this—?”

Jaskier lifted his gaze. He opened his mouth to shout: _Bastard, die—_ Suddenly the wind changed directions, fanning the flames of the fire, bigger and bigger. With a final strong gust, the fire was pushed out and toward the man like a stream of water, engulfing him.

He heard his shouts of pain, felt the heat of the fire on the side of his face, but he simply dropped his gaze back to Geralt, holding it there. Once the man had fallen, quiet and lifeless, Jaskier’s anger seemed to go with him.

All he felt was an ache of sadness, now.

The first drop of rain was startling, and yet welcomed; as much as Jaskier was glad for the man’s demise, no need to burn down the whole forest with it. Jaskier sat there. Now even the sadness had left him. All he felt was numb.

“Geralt,” he whispered. 

Eyelashes fluttering, Jaskier held his breath as Geralt opened his eyes. “Bag,” he croaked, and Jaskier struggled to find it, all their things thrown about by the wind. When he finally found Geralt’s bag, he rushed back over.

He instructed Jaskier on what to do:

“Find the vial with—with, yes, that—then the bandages—wrap it, Jaskier—”

Jaskier was somehow able to do all of it even with his shaking fingers. Once he had wrapped Geralt’s chest, he dropped back, staring at him with wide, wet eyes.

“You’re not dead,” he said, speaking for the first time. “Geralt, I thought he had—I thought you were—”

Geralt’s eyes flickered to the man’s fallen body, nearly gone, a pile of bones and ash. “I can see that.”

“How?” he asked around the sob in his throat.

Geralt shifted against the tree, groaning. “He missed all the important stuff,” he said, and somehow he had the audacity to smirk. “Idiot.”

“How didn’t you hear him?” he continued quickly, heart pounding. “He was _right_ there, Geralt, I—” He had always been able to hear when they were being approached, especially if by a human. Footsteps, and their heartbeat, and even their breathing. How hadn’t he heard any of it?

Geralt looked at him and away again. “The wind was too heavy,” he admitted quietly. “It was all I could hear.”

Jaskier nearly laughed, or sobbed. “It was my fault?” he replied, knowing that was the implication, even as Geralt tried to reach for him, stopping when the pain in his chest grew to be too much.

“No,” he said firmly. “You didn’t mean to, and you couldn’t have known.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip trembled as he fought the urge to cry. They didn’t need more troubles in one night, and so he tried to fight back the onslaught of emotions that threatened to spill over. “We have to stop this,” he said finally. “Fix me. Or stop _me_. I don’t care, but we have to do _something_.”

“I know,” Geralt said, surprising him. “I have an idea.”

Jaskier waited, but he simply shook his head.

“In the morning. I think we need to rest first.” At Jaskier’s disbelieving look, he smiled tightly. “ _I_ need to rest.”

*

Jaskier didn’t actually sleep. He stayed up all night, watching Geralt as he slept, which—objectively was probably crossing some kind of line, but he had nearly _died_. Right in front of him, _because_ of him. He had a right to be a little self-indulgent for a night.

When the sun started to rise, Geralt woke up slowly. Jaskier was tense, silently watching as he sat up and groaned, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Are you okay?” he blurted finally.

Geralt turned to him, nodding. “Should heal. Just might take a while.”

Jaskier looked down. “He wouldn’t have even been capable of getting close to you, under normal circumstances,” he muttered bitterly. A human, thinking he could kill Geralt. It was laughable, usually, and yet it had nearly happened last night because of Jaskier and his jumble of emotions.

The mage was crazy if she thought he should be _more_ emotional in any capacity. 

Geralt grunted. “Thankfully, I think I know how to fix our current situation.”

Jaskier looked up, eyes wide and hopeful. “You do?”

With a nod, Geralt gestured him over. Jaskier went, settling next to him. The relief of being next to him—of knowing he was would be okay—was almost staggering. The sun was warm on his face. “The message the mage left for you; I ignored it, at first, but it is becoming apparent that it might be more important than I originally thought.”

Jaskier tensed. “It isn’t,” he said quickly.

He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him. “She obviously didn’t think so.”

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut. “She is a selfish witch, just like Yennefer, who thinks she knows what _I_ —what we all need—more than we do.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” he heard, mildly amused, and Jaskier hated how he couldn’t even be _angry_ at Geralt. Not really. “But if she is like Yennefer, this spell won’t be easy to undo on our own. But a lot of spells are like curses in that they have a natural course to run. Once all conditions are met, or the purpose has been fulfilled, it will be undone.”

Jaskier opened his eyes. Geralt was watching him.

“Her message to you felt purposeful,” he continued, as gentle as Jaskier had ever heard him. “She must’ve thought you needed—as she put it— _help_ in some regard. If you can figure that out, we might be able to undo this on our own.”

Jaskier swallowed. “By what, giving her exactly what she wants?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes,” he conceded, “as long as it isn’t dangerous.”

Jaskier bit back a bitter laugh. Dangerous, no. Detrimental, maybe. It wasn’t as if he expected Geralt to just up and leave if he confessed his feelings—and if he did, he knew it wouldn’t be because he was disgusted, just overwhelmed and unsure. When he felt out of his element, his natural response was to escape the situation.

But if he confessed, he knew things could never return to normal. Not entirely.

Jaskier looked down at his hands. His fingertips had gotten a bit soft over the last couple of weeks from a lack of playing. He hadn’t trusted himself to touch his lute, given the circumstances. Playing had always been a way to release his emotions without exposing too much of himself. He smiled ruefully. “I think I know what she wants me to do.”

He heard Geralt’s soft intake of breath. “Okay.” A long pause, silence from both of them. “What is it?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, closed it. “I’m not sure we should do this, given that I might catch the forest on fire,” he said, forcing his voice to be light.

“No fire,” Geralt replied instantly, and Jaskier let out a strained laugh.

Jaskier pointedly kept his eyes lowered to the ground, hands clasped together. His chest was tight. The air of the forest was still and heavy. Suffocating. “You weren’t there,” he said. “At the competition. I played one of my newer pieces.”

He didn’t dare look up. Geralt was silent, just his quiet breathing.

“I practiced it a few times before the competition, but I doubt you were listening.”

“I was,” Geralt said. It was his secret pleasure, listening to Jaskier sing and play. When they had first met, he had found Jaskier’s constant singing to be a nuisance. Now, he looked forward to it. Found comfort in the sound of his smooth voice, especially. Though he questioned how any of this was relevant, but didn’t push.

Jaskier smiled. “Do you want to know the inspiration behind that piece?” he asked, ignoring the heavy thump of his own heart.

“I—I assumed it was about one of your many conquests,” he responded. “If not slightly dramatized.”

Jaskier only wish that were the truth, that his life could be so easy. He focused on the sound of the trees overhead, branches rustling with each breath he took. He debated beating around the bush, dragging out the inevitable, he was quite good at it, but frankly if his heart was going to be broken, he preferred to get it over with as quickly as possible.

_Especially_ if the aftermath of a broken heart might currently entail a tornado of epic proportions.

Lifting his gaze, he went for it: “It was about you. Every line of it.”

He had to add the second part, because it was _Geralt_ and he could be so endearingly dense. Some parts of the ballad were innocent enough, could be a friend speaking to a beloved friend, but not others. Geralt stared at him. Jaskier felt the first raindrop on his hand, and then—another. No, he realized belatedly, that was a tear.

“You wrote those things about—me?” he asked finally, disbelieving. Somehow, more than anything, he was thoroughly shocked by _that_. Not because it was a song of love, but because so many of the lyrics had described a person so thoroughly the opposite of him, gentle and beautiful, a soul that cared too much.

Jaskier flushed. “Perhaps I embellished a little,” he admitted, “but largely that is how I see you, yes, even if you don’t agree.”

Geralt let out a laugh that surprised even himself, scrubbing a hand down his face. A distant clap of thunder.

“You don’t have to laugh, Geralt,” he heard, snappy and high. “I know you don’t feel even remotely the same, but you don’t have to _laugh_.”

Geralt let his hand drop, peering at him with bright eyes. Jaskier was startled by the softness of his gaze, warm and familiar. “She wanted you to tell me that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Jaskier shrugged, nodding curtly.

“Guess she wanted me to humiliate myself, and look—” Jaskier gestured wildly at the quickly-darkening sky. “Didn’t even work.”

He sighed heavily, considering. “Jaskier, I have felt the same way about you for—I lost count,” he admitted after a short pause. Jaskier blinked owlishly at him, lips slightly parted like he had something to say and yet couldn’t find the words.

“Why—no, no, _no_ ,” Jaskier stuttered finally, flailing around like a fish out of water. “But you _never_ —”

Geralt tilted his head. “And _you_ did?”

Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut. “That isn’t quite the same thing,” he said loftily, and Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You are—Geralt, you barely even like _people_. As a principle. The fact that I was able to stay in your life, at all, was a _miracle_ , so forgive me if I never thought there was a chance you’d possibly feel the same way.”

“I don’t like people,” he agreed, “but you aren’t them. You’re _you_. Annoyingly stubborn and loyal.”

Jaskier’s heart squeezed in his chest. “Don’t dare start being romantic now, you bastard,” he grumbled.

Geralt smiled, a small quirk of his mouth that made Jaskier want to kiss him and never stop. He resisted the urge, just barely. “Come here,” he said, and Jaskier tossed caution to the wind, crawling over to him. Reaching up, Geralt grabbed him by the back of his neck. He stared at him, a silent question in his bright eyes. Jaskier could only nod.

When they kissed, just a light brush of his lips, well, Jaskier was pretty sure he let out an embarrassing sob. Geralt just chuckled against his mouth before kissing him deeper.

They only separated again when Jaskier moved the wrong way and pressed too heavily against Geralt’s injury. “Sorry,” he said quickly. Geralt shook his head.

“’m okay,” he said. “Like I said, just need a few days.”

Jaskier nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “Witchers and their unfair healing,” he said, because any human would’ve died from that, no doubt.

“Might’ve still died,” he said, “if you hadn’t been here to help me.”

Jaskier let out a shaky sigh. “Well, good thing for you I am annoyingly stubborn and loyal.”

Deciding to take the rest of the day off, all things considered, they simply sat together for a long time. Eventually Jaskier stood up to tend to Roach, and start a fire, but that was the extent of it. Finished, he returned to Geralt’s side.

He dared to peek at the sky; it had been calm all day, the sun warm and visible, a few fluffy clouds scattered across the sky. Jaskier startled when he felt Geralt’s hand on his own. Guess certain things would still take some getting used to.

“I don’t think the spell was just about you telling me how you felt,” Geralt said after a long stretch of silence. “It was about me doing the same.”

Jaskier nodded. “If you hadn’t felt the same way, I do have to wonder what would’ve happened.”

Geralt snorted, lazily brushing his thumb across Jaskier’s knuckles. “Thankfully we’ll never know.”

“I still hope we find that mage,” Jaskier said, tilting his head back to feel the sun on his face. “I would like to thank her, and then smash my lute over her head. In that order.”

Geralt’s answering laugh was possibly Jaskier’s new favorite sound.


End file.
